


Lodestone

by Cicerothewriter



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Alternate Universe, Deathfic, Established Relationship, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:42:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicerothewriter/pseuds/Cicerothewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why is Poirot do sad and angry in the later series?  Because his Hastings is gone.  This is an attempt at a possible answer as to why Hastings is no longer on the TV show.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lodestone

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This story is inspired by conversations I had with Phantomphan1990 and Foofarah on Livejournal.
> 
> Series: Unrelated to my other Poirot stories.

Poirot gazed out of his windows at the park which was situated in front of his apartment building. Now he lived a few stories above his old apartment. No, he could not have lived there, not after what had happened.

He felt the familiar sting of tears and brushed them away in a brusque, business-like manner. Tears were not needed for they would not bring his Hastings back. He was well aware of this due to the number of tears he had shed after…

He slammed the book shut which he had been trying to read. It was no good. His still keen mind would not let him ignore his desire to remember.

 

He watched as Hastings emerged from the bathroom, dressed in plain pajamas and a worn dressing gown. Poirot was clad in fine silk pajamas, and while he had given similar pajamas to Hastings, Hastings preferred the plain flannel on himself.

"Shall we attend that seminar tomorrow – the one you were mentioning earlier about bronzes?" Hastings asked, sliding under the covers.

For a moment Poirot was distracted by the curl of Hastings' grey hair. He could still remember the young man whose curl was virtually untamable and how much he had desired the lad then. He desired that lad even more so now. "I should like to, _mon ami_ , if you would not be adverse to such an expedition."

"Not at all. You've talked about nothing else for the past few weeks," Hastings replied, his blue eyes shining with good humor.

"And you have humored Poirot most graciously," Poirot said, reaching up to caress Hastings' cheek.

Hastings kissed him gently, and then murmured, "Yes, because my reward is so rich."

Hastings preferred the plain flannel on himself, but he loved the feel of silk on Poirot's skin and how Poirot reacted when he stroked his body through the thin fabric. Poirot moaned softly as Hastings pinched a silk-covered nipple, laughing softly when he felt Hastings smile against his neck.

"I love you," Hastings murmured, his hand sliding down Poirot's side.

" _Je vous aime_ ," Poirot replied. Even his little grey cells could not conjure the reason why the athletic, charming Hastings would desire and love Poirot, but Poirot would never chance his good fortune by asking why. It was simply a fact – a lodestone – of his life, and he knew without undue arrogance that he was the fixed point of Hastings' life.

Without knowing why he concentrated more than usual on the emotions and physical sensations of their lovemaking. The way Hastings' lips felt on his skin, the force Hastings preferred when Poirot stroked him to hardness, the tenderness of Hastings' fingers inside of him, and the perfect completion as Hastings pressed into him.

Their lovemaking was gentle, proof of their love when words might otherwise be misunderstood. Poirot allowed himself this vulnerability because he trusted Hastings – with his life, his heart, his little grey cells. The years – and more importantly, the familiarity – had not dulled their passion.

He cried out as his pleasure peaked, and smiled at Hastings' glassy blue eyes. " _Mon ami_ ," he said softly.

Hastings smiled.

 

Poirot shook his head. He did not wish to remember what happened next. His cursed, traitorous grey cells! How dare they remember most clearly what he wished to forget!

 

Their plans were interrupted by a case, and Hastings drove them to the scene of the crime. Therefore the Lagonda was close when the murderer, James Leroy, escaped the police.

Japp and Hastings gave chase, and Poirot was huffing at a distance behind them. At the front entrance Japp went left, and Hastings right. Poirot had just reached the entrance when the Lagonda's engine turned on. Hastings looked over in panic, and saw his beloved car start to drive toward him. It narrowly missed Japp, who executed a well-timed side-step to the curb in order to avoid being hit.

Leroy gunned the engine, not caring that there was a young woman in the middle of the road. Hastings cried out to her, and in her panic she stopped in the middle of the road. Hastings ran toward her.

Poirot shouted Hastings' name, told him to get out of the way, and in the distance he heard Japp's cried warning.

Hastings pushed the young lady out of harm's way, but he could not move fast enough to save himself. Poirot nearly screamed his name as Hastings when over the bonnet of the car, and rolled onto the ground.

If she had not been blonde and pretty, if Poirot had been closer, if they had ignored the case and gone to the seminar instead, would Hastings be with him today?

Poirot shouted, "Hastings!" and ran to his friend, who was lying crumpled half-on the curb. The Lagonda had swerved and hit a lamppost; the driver was unmoving.

Poirot took Hastings' hand, and pleaded with him to open his eyes. Japp took one look at Hastings, and blanched; there was no chance, but still he told the constable to call for an ambulance.

Poirot kept pleading with Hastings until eventually Hastings opened his eyes. They were no longer clear with good humor or glassy from pleasure but cloudy with pain, and Poirot whispered a denial.

"Poirot," Hastings murmured, his body jerking slightly at the pain.

"Hastings! _Arthur, mon dieu_!" Poirot tried his best not to cause further pain to Hastings, but he needed to touch him. His arm went about Hastings' shoulders, and Poirot sat on the filthy ground so as not to further bend or jar Hastings.

Japp turned to give them the veneer of privacy.

"Sorry, Poirot," Hastings murmured. "I didn't…" He whimpered, his body shaking as the pain split him into two, but he fought against the blackness, well aware that once he succumbed, he would never return.

" _Non, non, mon ami_ , you should not be sorry. The ambulance will be here soon."

Hastings shook his head. "Too late."

" _Non, non, non_ ," Poirot said, shaking his head and scattering tears everywhere.

"Love you," Hastings murmured, trying to raise his hand up to Poirot's face. When he felt his strength wane, Poirot took his hand and raised it to his cheek. "Hercule…"

" _Je vous aime_ ," Poirot replied, shaking with the force of his emotions: terror and disbelief. " _Ne me quittes pas_ ," he whispered.

"Don't… don't… want… oh love," Hastings whispered. Poirot recognized the blackness in Hastings' eyes, and watched that final light dissipate.

Poirot whispered a denial, and hugged Hastings closer, not caring about how he looked to those around him. He buried his head against Hastings' silent chest and cried.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and when he looked up, he saw Japp – a very teary eyed and red-faced Japp – standing over him. "The ambulance is here," Japp said, his voice rough.

"Too late," Poirot murmured.

 

His little grey cells failed him afterward. He only had a vague remembrance of Japp guiding him home and Ms. Lemon's tears. He was ashamed at how little comfort he could offer her; he was completely shattered.

The funeral had been an uncomfortable disaster. Poirot had cried himself to the point of pain before the ceremony, and so had stood numb as Hastings' sister demanded to know why Hastings was not being buried on the family estate. She then demanded her own attorney when later the will was read. Hastings had amassed a tidy sum due to careful planning and his Argentinean ranch, and he had left everything to his friend, Hercule Poirot, with a few exceptions for Inspector Japp, Ms. Lemon, and Hastings' younger sister.

The first action Poirot took with Hastings' estate was to have the Lagonda destroyed.

Now he went through the motions of living. He travelled to those places which they had discussed visiting: a romantic Nile cruise, the south of France, the Middle East, a trip on the Orient Express. Hastings would have loved the travel and the exotic peoples. He would have loved the mysteries and the adventure.

No one could act as a substitute for Hastings, although many had tried. George took care of him to the best of his ability, but he never knew how to properly care for Poirot. He did not know when to say a calming "steady on" to Poirot or to smirk behind the back of an impudent client. Ariadne Oliver involved herself in his affairs every so often, but theirs was about a unromantic and platonic a relationship as there could be between two people, although he appreciated that she was one of the few who felt they could tease him. He suspected that she knew from where his sadness arose, and he also appreciated her tact in that matter. As for George's awareness, he had not the faintest idea.

His lodestone was gone, and he went through the motions, waiting for the time when he could be reunited with Hastings. His religious beliefs gave him comfort in all but his darkest moments. He had to believe that he would see Hastings again.


End file.
